


Life with Sherlock

by ShepardCommander



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShepardCommander/pseuds/ShepardCommander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson knew that it was better for him to go with Holmes and restrain him when he got carried away, rather than stay in bed and wake to news of his friend having been committed to a loony bin. A series of drabbles on life with Holmes. DISCONTINUED. MOVING TO "COMPLETE" STATUS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life with Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Months ago when I'd had no internet connection in my apartment, I'd been watching my Sherlock Holmes DVDs (the ones starring Jeremy Brett). After watching "The Resident Patient" and seeing Holmes sneak into Watson's room when he was sleeping, as well as Mrs. Hudson's reaction to Holmes's messy room , I was inspired to write a series of drabbles that I happened to forget that I'd started until now.

John Watson was a creature that needed sleep. He was like every other human being in that regard, save possibly one and that one person happened to be the exception to a lot of things. Unfortunately, most of the things that that one person—the detective—was an exception to happened to be some of the things that Watson not only required to function but loved to enjoy as well—sleeping, eating, and drinking to name a few. It was a wonder that the detective had not stricken breathing from his list of bodily needs.

Unfortunately for Watson, his dear friend the detective sometimes forgot that Watson was no Sherlock and that he needed his rest. The detective would get caught up in a case, thinking about it for days on end without nourishment or a thought to laying his head down and shutting his eyes. He would think things through till there was nothing left to think about, turning scenarios over and over in his mind, matching facts, coming up with theories, dismissing the improbable. And then, when he had made some sort of significant discovery or reached a satisfying and error-free conclusion, he would burst into the doctor's room to either wake him with the good news or drag him out of bed to stop some horrible deed. It didn't matter which was the reason for Sherlock bursting into his room though, Watson still dreaded it.

Now, it wasn't to say that Watson didn't enjoy his little exploits with the detective—far from it in fact—and later on in the day he was always glad that Sherlock had awoken him, but in the mornings and wee hours of the night when he was rudely shaken from slumber he always felt like throttling the tall man. As it was it was a miracle that Sherlock had not been shot yet by a very cross and tired Watson who, in the state between wakefulness and sleepiness, might have mistaken him for an intruder meant to do him harm.

"Watson! Watson!"

The doctor let out a little noise that sounded very much like a whine. What the devil was his eccentric, arrogant, and ingenious friend up to this time? Cracking his left eyes open the slightest amount, the tired man moved his hand quickly towards the pocket watch lying on the night stand near his bed. Flicking it open and maneuvering it so the light of the moon could catch its face, he groaned as he caught the time.

3 o'clock in the morning.

"Watson! Quick man!"

Moaning, Watson rolled over and put his face into his pillow, his hand dropping the gold watch back into place before resuming its resting position at his side.

Any second now he knew that the tall man would be bursting in, eyes wild with glee, and limbs trembling with pent-up energy. He would be moving about, unable to contain his excitement and joy, something only he could derive from someone else's misery, not to say that he wanted others to suffer but that he merely was at his best when solving their unhappy problems.

It was rather ironic, Watson mused to himself as he waited for his friend to arrive in all his glory, that Sherlock should only be able to truly live when someone else died.

"Watson!" Sherlock cried, at last throwing the door open. "Come! The game is afoot! Get your trousers on!" And with that, he closed the door, his footsteps echoing down the hall and then the stairs. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would have heard him as well, with the entire ruckus he'd made.

Sighing and accepting the inevitable, Watson grudgingly threw off his warm sheets, shivering as the cold air of the night hit him full force. As he moved towards his dresser and began to pick out his clothes—not caring much what he wore— he knew that it was better for him to go with Holmes and restrain him when he got carried away rather than stay in bed and wake to news of his friend having been committed to a loony bin.


End file.
